


You May Blame Aphrodite

by completetheory



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: (One mention of misgendering), 1910s, 1920s, Gen, Queer Friendly, Queer Themes, Trans Female Character, Trans Friendly, gender euphoria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:48:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23991808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/completetheory/pseuds/completetheory
Summary: Maxwell muses, and Wilson figures out the truth about the "Demon's" entry into the Constant. Short, fluffy, shipping only if you squint.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	You May Blame Aphrodite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MadScientific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadScientific/gifts).



> All of the facts quoted in this story are historically accurate. The 1910s and 1920s were comparatively queer friendly time periods for gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people; interested parties can look up the 'Pansy Craze', which began in 1869.

The Amazing Maxwell had taken to using that name - as well as the name ‘Maxie’ - off stage, and was tentatively exploring a ‘she/her’ pronoun use with her best friend and magician’s assistant, Charlie. Coming to California, with its heavily built up population in the early 1900s, and mingling with the local theatre groups and nightclubs...

So many people were queer. It was amazing. Maxwell flourished in that environment, partly bolstered by the (perhaps Satanic?) real magic, but always disguising it as simple tricks, impressive displays of illusion. She _loved_ the atmosphere of acceptance that thrived in those buildings, but more she loved the atmosphere of acceptance blossoming inside _herself._

While she met and mingled with performing queens in the nighttime hours, retreating to her private study on slow days to investigate the secrets of the _Codex Umbra_ , in the evenings she was on stage, full-on into her persona and as happy as she could ever remember being.

There were a few hiccups, though the confession to Charlie was not one of them, thankfully. The magic itself was a work in progress - every so often, Maxwell could feel the slightest shift in universal fabric, an off-balance sensation. She attributed it to overwork, at first, and got a few more hours of sleep. For some time, that seemed to fix it. 

Then she noticed her fingertips losing color, going white and occasionally numb, and visited a local doctor promptly, to be told it was ‘probably stress’. 

Maxwell didn’t understand. Everything had been going very well; she didn’t outright tell the doctor that her gender exploration had made her the happiest she’d been in years, but she did disagree mildly that the stress was higher than before. Doing real magic in front of an awed crowd was the dream! 

And then the dream became a nightmare. 

Within a moment, Maxwell realized that not all the shadowy entities in the mysterious book were as friendly as Mr. Skitts, who ran from close examination but reappeared to watch. Some of them were hostile, or they wanted something she didn’t comprehend, and they took Charlie, as well. That was the last time she faced the abyss of the crowd, and heard it cheer. From then on, she sat in darkness, and listened to the whispers, and slowly felt her humanity wear away like the gilded exterior of a cheap watch.

Identities were tested in the dark. Ideologies, and what a person stood for, were only worth as much as they could bear up over the strain of hours-into-centuries. 

She held the Throne, and the Throne held her. And for a while she gave up on learning more about herself, because when push came to shove, there wasn’t much ‘self’ left. She even forgot the other name that she’d used outside the stage persona, and sometimes when Charlie brushed past the Throne, she forgot _her_ name, as well. Everything was clouded over, indistinct, and distant. 

That music, on an endless loop, dominated her thoughts. She could not be said to sleep, but did occasionally hang quiescent in half-awareness, restless false escapes that served only to enhance the effect of the prison. 

The scientist was a welcome novelty, initially, not a problem at all. A mild amusement like all the rest. No matter what illusions the Constant survivors employed, they were all grist for the mill of Their entertainment - horrible broken things, whose principal interest was observing suffering in order to temporarily alleviate Their own. 

But like any drug, They needed more of it, and more often, and Their Throne-bound captive was Their primary source of supply. As Wilson advanced through the world so painstakingly carved and crafted by Maxwell the Magnificent, she felt her grip on whatever was left of herself threaten to give way completely. A demon, a monster, stood before the scientist then, with sharp teeth and all puffed up like a cat, for much the same reasons. Terrified underneath. 

Of what? Rescue? 

That same scientist stood before the Throne, listened to every word she had to say, and then turned off the gramophone that had for so long tormented her. 

And then Wilson liberated her. Maxwell rejoiced in being free, a precious heartbeat of time that They (greedy, fae, jealous!) took from her, letting the years catch up in a merciless, pulverizing rush. 

Of course death in the Constant was no real death at all. And she was unsurprised to find herself back there, facing the prospect of Wilson enthroned, and what to do. Or whether to do anything at all. In short order, however, it proved a non-issue, Wilson’s own escape sparing her the trouble of returning to the Darkness for an extraction. 

The fact that Charlie was in command did come with its own set of problems. But, portal in hand, the two persevered, succeeding only in centralizing and marshaling their forces, not any kind of directly use against the current Nightmare Majesty.

Then one night, with Wilson quietly awake by the fire, and Maxwell reading, the scientist asked a question. 

“How did you... first know you were a fairy?” 

Maxwell snorted in surprise. “Haven’t you ever been to a music hall? A nightclub... a ‘speakeasy’? People like us thrived everywhere.” 

“I never got out much generally.” Wilson admitted, “But if you could communicate with me through the radio, I bet you heard a lot of things over it?” 

“Oh, I didn’t need radio broadcasts from your era to know my own mind, but there were plenty. And advertisements - the _Pansy Craze_ , they called it. Very openly queer. By that point I was already less human. Or - more than human, if you like. But it gratified me that your world was revealing what was always there.”

“I noticed Wolfgang calls WX-78 a ‘metal man’, but you call them ‘Mx’.” Wilson added, stirring the fire. The word ‘queer’ wasn’t unusual to her, as Americans had adopted it in the early 1910s, and she had some cross-cultural overlap with Americans in the cities prior to becoming a complete recluse. Something was good about it, and something was very lacking, all at the same time.

“WX-78 is nonbinary.” Maxwell explained gamely, “Wolfgang’s English is spotty, I’m sure he doesn’t mean anything by it. He has that folksy way of speaking. Still, if it were me, I’d correct him.”

Wilson was quiet for a bit, and Maxwell realized she hadn’t properly answered the question that began all this. “I suppose it was a gradual awareness, and one that brought me some pleasure, even if it also brought confusion and concern. I knew there would be consequences for it, if I chose to be open with who I was to everyone, but I was able to find some very true friends at the time who were of similar mindset, and we all thrived quite nicely.”

This seemed to throw Wilson for a loop. “Then why did you come here?” 

“I was kidnapped.” Maxwell leaned back.

Wilson sputtered, remembering only to lower her volume when someone stirred in the tent behind them. “But - but you’ve been taking responsibility for everything! Saying ‘sorry’ to Charlie - and to the pipspooks!”

“I _am_ sorry.” Maxwell avoided looking directly at her.

“But if you were _kidnapped,_ and if They did this to you, then you don’t have anything to be sorry for. You’re a victim, just like the rest of us.”

Maxwell didn’t know where to look, or how to avoid that uncomfortable truth. “Can we discuss gender politics again, instead?” 

“...All right.” Wilson was, however, looking at her with new eyes, her own sympathetic, “I think I’m a lady. Or at least woman-adjacent. It’s sometimes hard to tell.” 

“Let me know when you’d like me to inform the others.” Maxwell returned lazily to the confidence that so well characterized her when she was not directly challenged. “I imagine most of them will be accepting. You may get ‘ribbing’ from Willow. She seems the type.”

Wilson curled up on the straw roll. “I owe you one, Maxwell.” 

“Eh. Invent me a cigar.”


End file.
